“Clean! Clear! Curated!” said Mrs. Marsh, after waiting on a pause.

“Oh, right,” said Carmen, feeling sulky.

Mrs. Marsh caught her gaze suddenly. “You know,” she said, “it was the fashion and the white goods that did for Dounston’s. Did you know that? Haberdashery was always profitable. Always.”

This . . . It almost sounded like praise, and Carmen realized it cost Mrs. Marsh something to say it. She frowned.

Mrs. Marsh turned around slowly, like a battleship, and reached for the door.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” said Carmen suddenly. “I’m not quite sure where to start.”

Mrs. Marsh whipped back around immediately. “Well, get to know your stock, for a start, rather than standing around like a pudding. And for goodness’ sake get something going on for Christmas. It’s the beginning of November. Forty percent, you know! Forty percent of your year’s sales to see you through happen in the next eight weeks! Did you listen to nothing I said?”

Carmen didn’t answer that.

“Well, better late than never. You get this place looking Christmassy. And get it tidied up. Fill it with Christmas . . . things . . .”

“Books.”

“Yes. And for goodness’ sake, clean. I don’t want to leave wrapped in filth. And neither does anyone else.” She gave Carmen a penetrating gaze. “Are you up to it or not?”

And then she did leave, without a goodbye, without even waiting to hear the answer, leaving Carmen shaken and annoyed.

Presently, a group of tourists came past and peered in the window. They didn’t seem to know they were entirely audible through the thin glazing.

“Oh my God, look at that,” said a loud woman’s voice. “Do you think something new is going in there?”

“They should put a juice bar in,” said another voice. “I mean, look at the crap in there.”

“Oh yes, all these bloody hills,” came another as they marched past. “You get thirsty.”

“Oh, I don’t know. If you ever want some really shit postcards . . .”

“Shh,” said the first voice. “They might hear you.”

“Well, I’ll apologize the very next time I don’t go there,” came the voice, fading away.

They’re right, thought Carmen in despair. They’re right. This is a stupid amount of work, like Mrs. Marsh said. I’ll never manage it. It’s too much for me. I always fail. Sofia could probably do it in, like, ten minutes. But I’m not like her. It’s just too much. I’ll find something else. This is just a waste of time. It’s stupid.